


Out of the Embers

by thewaythatwerust



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hunger Games Setting, Light Angst, M/M, Meet-Cute, Non-Serum Steve Rogers/Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes | Shrinkyclinks, Steve Rogers is a Sassy Little Shit, alt pov
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-21
Updated: 2020-11-21
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:48:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27642335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewaythatwerust/pseuds/thewaythatwerust
Summary: "What's your name?" Bucky shouldn't ask, doesn't need his ghosts to have names, but he can't stop himself.The blond's eyes narrow, ocean eyes turning stormy with suspicion. "Why? You wanna make me a headstone?"Bucky's lips twitch at the sass, and a crack fissures through the shield he's erected between who he is and the soldier he has to be in the arena. Still, he presses the tip of the blade a little deeper, watching skin bow but remain unbroken, just enough pressure to remind the waif who's in control."Are you that eager to die? You really got no one to mourn you if I bleed you out right here?"
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 44
Kudos: 153





	Out of the Embers

**Author's Note:**

> i. I was asked on tumblr if I'd ever write a Hunger Games AU. It's been simmering in the dusty, neglected WIP box of doom in gdocs, until this morning when I woke up with this scene in my head. So, dear anon, whoever you are, I hope you like this. <333
> 
> ii. You know the drill, squee, flail, grumble or shout, I love (and am shamelessly powered by) it all. <333
> 
> ii. Come play with me on tumblr (@thewaythatwerust) for spoilers and sneak peeks and asky fun times and gif abuse. <3

Steve is about to die.

The cold steel of the knife pressing sharply against his throat bites into his flesh, the first trickle of blood warm over his sweaty skin as it races down his neck, pushed out by the erratic thumping in his chest. But Steve ignores the pounding and just notches his chin higher. It's not an attempt to escape the blade — he's laboring under no false delusions that this moment won't be his last — but he can't resist one last act of defiance.

He'd known from the moment his name had been reaped that he would never set foot back into District Twelve, never see his ma's face again but for in his dreams, had known his blood would become a trophy for someone else, his last breath swallowed up in the chime of victory for another tribute. He just hadn't expected it to happen on the first fucking day.  
  
The rage that tears through him shocks him with its intensity, his hands curled into fists shaking by his sides with the failed effort to keep it in. All the piss and vinegar and sheer _spite_ that has kept him breathing through his twenty-two years in hell — through the gut-wrenching hunger, the dust storms that put a permanent wheeze into his chest, and the cold that ate away at his bones until they were a constant brittle, bitter, and painful reminder of a reality of life lived without fortune's favors — had been for naught. He'd survived everything, and for what? To meet his end a million miles from home by the bite of cold steel.

But that's not the only thing cold; the icy eyes ringed by messy black smears could give him frostbite. And though logically Steve knows the obsidian half-mask is camouflage for the somber forest surrounding them, he can't stop the twisted humor rising and tugging at his lips. It looks more like the fancy veils the foplings in the first district favor, trying to distract from vacant eyes and hollow souls. And, hell, his aim might not be too far off. The guy screams low district perfection — square jawline, cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass, no evidence of brawls waged over the last scrap of bread evident in the straight line of his nose, in fact, his hulking body looks like it's _never_ gone hungry, and the piece of tech attached to it in place of a left arm... yeah, Steve would bet his life this guy is from the top quarter.

The fancy metal scales are smooth and shiny, expertly rendered, not roughly-hewn like the contraband metalsmithing of districts above the eighth. Each plate on the arm looks like it'd be worth a year of plates on his ma's kitchen table. It's a pity he won't make it to the end of the games; he could have left with a mantle and enough metal to trade for two lifetime's worth of rations. But now... Now the only title tied to his name will be that of the first casualty of war, taken down by a fopling before the first moon. His name will become a curse back home, a jeer, an embarrassment. No one's gonna be lining up to help his ma now; he'd sealed her fate as much as his own.

His bones _deserve_ to rot in the arena.

Steve had known his name would be drawn on reaping day, he'd traded it for too many rations for it not to, but keeping his ma from starving to death last winter had been worth it; but he won't be around for the next one. Steve's humorless laugh slices from his throat sharper even than the knife digging into it from the outside. He'll be the first tribute in the history of the games responsible for two deaths without landing a single blow.

The blade's pressure eases, so too the sharp stinging pain, but the knife doesn't lift completely, and the mountain of a man attached to the end of it cocks his head, light eyes narrowing.

"You're about to die, and you're laughing?"

The voice is deep yet lilting, rough and rusty like it's not been used in a while, and Steve tries to ignore the way it curls down his spine and settles warm in his belly. All things considered, he should be grateful of all ends he could have been given, fate has chosen this one for him — the last thing he'll set eyes on in this world will be beautiful at least.

He shrugs a shoulder to the stunning stranger about to claim his victory, feels the blade pivot against his throat as he speaks. "I sure as hell ain't gonna beg."

* * *

Bucky's hand wavers, turning the hilt in slow, calculated circles against the fragile skin above the blond's Adam's apple.

He _knows_ he should just get it over with — drive the knife forward, thrust it deep, but the dark laugh is still ringing in his ears, and he doesn't want to chase it away with the gurgling of blood and the waif's last gasp of life.

So Bucky waits... bides his time and takes stock of the vision before him as he trains his heart back to a steady rhythm.

The blond is from a high district, that much is obvious. His too lean frame speaks of too much hard work and no easy meals, and the fire in his eyes is old, like it's been fanned over a lifetime of having to fight just to draw breath. And, god, but those eyes are beautiful — the color of the rare cobalt sea glass that washes ashore after summer squalls. He doesn't want to be the one to snuff out the light that's burning within them, but this idiot — this fucking gorgeous idiot — is leaning into the blade like he wants Bucky to do just that.

He can't remember if there's ever been a suicide in the arena, but he doesn't want the blond to be the first.

"You got a death wish?" Bucky asks quietly as he trails the blade lower, curving it to the side, to a point he knows means a fair chance of survival if this moron surges forward and impales himself before Bucky can build up the nerve to do it himself.

And there's that dark humor again, putting the birdsong to shame as the waif laughs in the face of death.

"Look around, pal. Death is granting only one wish in here, and it ain't gonna be mine."

Bucky's palm is peppered with sweat, the worn grip slipping slightly before he adjusts his hold. The blond's already resigned to his fate, it would be a mercy to put him out of his misery quickly. If it had been another tribute to catch him, they wouldn't show such kindness. Bucky watches the slender throat bob beneath his blade. It shouldn't be so hard to fulfill this kid's expectations and do what he came to do. He had known this would happen eventually; if he has any hope of finding his way back to Becca, it has to. If he walks out of this godforsaken place, it will be with blood on his hands.

Still, he'd been expecting it on the last day, not the first. His strategy of waiting in the woods, letting the tributes pick each other off one by one isn't the most exciting plan but it _is_ a sound one, and it's the only one he has… the only one he can live with, _after_.

If there _is_ an after.

Bucky curls his fingers a little tighter and sets his shoulders. No. There _will_ be an after. He'd volunteered as tribute, taken his sister's place, he won't saddle her with the guilt of his death without a fight. He'd sacrificed too much already to forfeit his life to some sick, twisted bastard's idea of _entertainment_.

Pain scratches over the raw nerves where flesh meets metal, the plates whirring and realigning, spurred on by the stress signals flooding his brain. He ignores them; pain he can deal with, he's used to it. It won't be his last.

"What's your name?" Bucky shouldn't ask, doesn't need his ghosts to have names, but he can't stop himself.

The blond's eyes narrow, ocean eyes turning stormy with suspicion. "Why? You wanna make me a headstone?"

Bucky's lips twitch at the sass, and a crack fissures through the shield he's erected between who he is and the soldier he has to be in the arena. Still, he presses the tip of the blade a little deeper, watching skin bow but remain unbroken, just enough pressure to remind the waif who's in control.

"Are you that eager to die? You really got no one to mourn you if I bleed you out right here?"

Those pretty eyes flash before the fire simmers, slim shoulders dropping for a single breath before finding new steel. That proud chin pushes higher again — a challenge and a rebuke, both. "Steve. My name is Steve."

"Steve," Bucky repeats, ignoring the pleasant weight of the word on his tongue. "I'm Bucky."

He lowers the knife from Steve's neck, spinning it in the air between them before dropping his arm to his side. It's a test hidden within a show of faith, one he desperately wants Steve to pass. He knows he can have the blade rammed clear through that tender throat before Steve could even get the bow off his back and an arrow notched.

Bucky had only been watching the blond for a few minutes before Steve had tensed like a deer in a hunter's scope, sensed Bucky's presence without sight or sound — an impressive display of awareness given the circumstances. Steve had turned, reaching for the bow, but it didn't matter; the waif was quick, but Bucky was ready.

And now that he has him dead to rights, a single breath away from Steve's last, he's the one caught off guard. "What would you say to an alliance?"

Steve eyes the knife but makes no move to gain the upper hand, makes no move at all while his thoughts flicker rapid-fire over his face until finally, wary eyes lift to Bucky's. "Why? We're not even from the same district."

The question is simple, expected, and yet… Bucky has no simple answer.

He can't claim strategy — working together had only yielded disastrous results for past tributes: familiarity breeds paranoia, and most teams don't last a single night before one turns on the other. But he can't own up to the truth, either, because the truth is he doesn't know _why_ he can't bring himself to do what he knows needs to be done. His sole purpose is to survive the games, to walk out of this hellhole with his heart still beating, nothing else matters. But it's his heart that's failing him now. He can't bear the thought of the fire in those small bones turning cold, let alone being the one responsible for it.

"You're small," Bucky says instead, smiling at the way Steve bristles visibly at the perceived slight. "You're fast, and you've got a long-distance weapon. I think we'll complement each other well. Together, we might just make it to the end of this thing." Bucky almost believes his own words.  
  
 _Almost._

Steve's brows tug together as he weighs up the words, pretty eyes searching Bucky's as if trying to find the hook. "Okay…" he draws out slowly, voice brimming with cynicism. "And when it's just you and me left? What then?"

Bucky slips his knife into the sheath on his leg with practiced ease. He leaves the securing strap undone… just in case. Just in case by listening to his heart instead of his head he's made the biggest mistake of his life — the last one he'll ever make.

"Then, we'll see which one of us death favors."


End file.
